


we had the experience but missed the meaning

by TheKnittingJedi



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Bibliomancy, Literary References & Allusions, M/M, Missing Scenes, ineffable husbands
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-09
Updated: 2019-09-09
Packaged: 2020-10-13 08:23:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,370
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20579444
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheKnittingJedi/pseuds/TheKnittingJedi
Summary: He learned early on not to question the signs.He wouldn’t even be sure where to start, if someone asked him to explain what’s happening. The thing is, Crowley’s almost sure the universe is speaking to him. Sending him signs, as it were.





	we had the experience but missed the meaning

He learned early on not to question the signs.

He wouldn’t even be sure where to start, if someone asked him to explain what’s happening. The thing is, Crowley’s almost sure the universe is speaking to him. Sending him signs, as it were.

He’s almost certain the first time was a coincidence. He just happened to be in the Garden of Eden at the right moment and within earshot. It's not like there were many other things to pay attention to, once the whole business with the apple was concluded. Yes, he was supposed to slither back to Hell once all was said and done, and maybe it was a pure accident of fate after all that he happened to hear an angelic voice shoo off the two lovebirds with — and this was the part that made him stop in his metaphorical and physical tracks — the God-given flaming sword he had just shoved into the poor girl’s hand.

What was he supposed to do, then, if not to raise the subject with the author of such a rebellious, un-angelic feat?

He is prepared to admit, if pressed, that the situation in Mesopotamia wasn’t hard to miss and that calling that one overheard conversation a “sign” was perhaps a stretch. He learned about the Ark through a completely ordinary grapevine; on the other hand, the word of mouth reached him with perfect timing, and he had an inkling that the white doves on the windowsill of the local tavern — which immediately reminded him of another white-winged creature — weren’t a native species.

The third time (if you consider the other two as “signs”, that is) required more work in the Curious Coincidences Department. He had no intention to go to the crucifixion. Not that one. Nope, not a good idea. He had become attached to the young man while he was ostensibly tempting him, and that wasn't a good look on a demon, fraternising and all that. 

First he caught something with the corner of his eye, a flourish on someone’s robe that uncannily resembled his tattoo. When he tried to look again, it was gone. Then a farmer raised his voice while talking to his neighbour about that place uphill _ crawling _ with people. He almost turned around, thinking that he had called his name. That got his attention all right. Still, he stubbornly refused to see where all this was going. He decided the time for a trip to India was long overdue, when a little lamb escaped from the grasp of a young shepherd. Having almost tripped on the little beast, Crowley rolled his eyes and gave up. 

If he had read the signs correctly, Aziraphale would be there, and he could as well go himself. To taunt him, obviously. It wasn't his fault, after all, if their banter had the side effect of comforting the angel. Of making him feel less alone. It didn't occur to Crowley that it worked on both sides.

After that, he became quite proficient in sign-reading. He did his best in the sign-avoiding department, with less than stellar results. For example, his stint as the Black Knight was not his first choice of evil deed. This one bit him in the ass, because he was _ sure _he had correctly interpreted the sign that suggested he posed as a cursed damsel in the woods, tempting wandering knights with her long hair, light foot and wild eyes. But if he wanted to spend his days surrounded by catatonic morons, he would just go back to Hell and be done with it. 

Instead he involuntarily became Sir Aziraphale’s foil, his counterpart. The universe had an immature sense of humour, sometimes.

The patterns became familiar: hearing his name or seeing it written somewhere (on a licence plate, on a store sign) means PAY ATTENTION. If both happen, it means URGENT & IMPORTANT. The details could come from everywhere, from overheard conversations to newspaper titles, and later sidewalk chalkboards or lines in movies. Sometimes, if it’s really urgent, it bends reality: a line in a movie that won't be there if he rewinds to listen again, a familiar figure crossing the street who disappears before reaching the other side, the recorded voice on the bus announcing the wrong stop. Glitches in the Matrix, he calls them after 1999.

The sign he received during the French Revolution required no less than three PAY ATTENTIONs. He was busy with the same old routine, sowing the seeds of infidelity by introducing an ambassador’s wife to a bright young British admiral, convincing a bunch of poets to spend unhealthy amounts of time in graveyards and suchlike. First there was the snake: it slithered on the sidewalk, which was busy and wet with rain, and was gone in a moment. Crowley didn’t stop. It could have been just a reflection in a puddle. Then the news crier he was passing by positively shouted his name, and when Crowley turned he saw his alarm mirrored on the boy's face. He made to move, and that was when the white Persian cat in the shop window opened his eyes and yawned at him.

“Fine, I’m paying attention”, he hissed. “What is it?” Nothing happened. “Listen, if it’s urgent you better give me a clue, or…” And then it came to him: if there was really an intention behind all this, maybe he could force things a little?

He did the first thing that occurred to him: he turned to the news crier and grabbed him by the lapels. “What’s your name?”

The unfortunate pawn of destiny swallowed hard but was too shocked not to answer. “P-P-Paris, sir.”

Crowley let him go and distractedly flicked him a silver coin. Well, the good news was that it worked, he supposed, and left for France, _ to the rescue _, apparently.

Crowley is working in a damp basement with the rest of the counterintelligence when a man sneezes twice and, in between the sneezes, calls his name. His _ real _name, the unpronounceable one. “Bless you” he says absent-mindedly, and then shudders.

The man doesn’t even look up from the code he’s trying to break. “I’ve got it! I’ve got the key!” He sneezes again, and again, barely able to pull his handkerchief out of his sleeve. “Oh, no, the allergy… Bloody mould. I’ve got to go.” And leaves the table in a hurry, with the handkerchief pressed on his face.

Crowley blinks, hesitates, then shifts on his chair to look at what his colleague was working on. There's a lot of paper with lots of numbers and letters on it, most of which don't make sense to him. There's also a book. He recognizes the author: he has just published a new book, something about a bunch of quartets, whatever those are. He doesn't have an interest in London’s Modernist scene or whatever, but you pick up things when you're trying to secretly keep tabs on the owner of a bookshop.

He opens the book where a pencil was used as a bookmark and reads:

_Is it like this_  
_In death's other kingdom_  
_Waking alone_  
_At the hour when we are_  
_Trembling with tenderness_  
_Lips that would kiss  
_ _Form prayers to broken stone. _

“Ugh, poetry.”

That's when he overhears the conversation. “Did you hear? The Nazi spy ring has a new contact. Some bookseller.”

“The poor fool. What's his name?”

“Something like Fall? Anyway, they're going to take care of him for us.”

_ Oh, for f– _Crowley looks around and sees the radio before him. He turns it on, knowing that the first thing he'll hear will probably be the name of a place. And it is, obviously.

It's the first Monday after the Nonpocalypse. Nothing's changed and everything.

Crowley brings to the bookshop a bottle of wine, a potted plant and the resolve to finally broach the topic that's been nagging at him for nearly 6000 years. While Aziraphale looks for the perfect spot for the peperomia, he opens the wine and doesn’t bother for glasses.

“This is not a social visit, angel.”

Aziraphale's eyebrows lift in the most unimpressed of ways. “No?”

“No, it's academic. I have a matter to discuss.”

The angel's curiosity is piqued, he can see as much, although his concerned expression is more for propriety's sake, almost mocking. “Well, there's a first time for anything. Hit me with it.”

Crowley shudders at the delighted tone in which this last sentence was uttered, then composes himself. Here goes nothing. “Do you ever… Has it ever happened to you… When… Have you ever received a _ sign _?”

Aziraphale gestures to Crowley for the bottle from his overstuffed chair and frowns. “What you really mean is that _ you _ have received one, am I correct?”

“Extraordinarily perceptive of you.” Crowley clears his voice. “See, that's what I wanted to talk about. It was not just the one. Have you ever wondered how… All the times I've been… At the right time, in the right place?”

Aziraphale nods politely, as if what he's saying made any sense.

How is he supposed to make eye contact with him and go on? “Oh, this is stupid. They're probably just coincidences anyway.”

“Let me summarize a bit, to make sure we're on the same page. The reason you are always 'at the right time, in the right place' is because you receive _ signs _?”

Crowley's mouth tries a few words before settling on _ Mmfh_.

“Can you give me an example?”

He does. A few of them. The ones he remembers. (He remembers them all.)

There's a pause on Aziraphale's side. He takes a sip of wine from the bottle, then another one. “Did it ever occur to you that maybe you've swapped the cause and the effect?”

“Excuse me?”

The angel looks exasperated, but also something else. Fond? “Should I point out the obvious?”

“Maybe you should, because it's not obvious to me at all.”

“You do realise that all these signs pointed to… to me, every single time?”

Of course. He knew that this was a bad idea. “Listen, can we just pretend I never…”

“And maybe, given what's transpired in the last few days, we could finally admit that we, ah, hold each other in some consideration, and have been for quite some time?”

“_Consideration? _”

The ghost of a smile passes on the angel's lips. “Whatever you wish to call it, my dear.” He ignores his sputtering and goes on. “Maybe what really happened is this: you wanted something and the universe just gave you directions, so to speak. Would you indulge in a little experiment? Pick a book from one of the shelves.”

Speechless, Crowley gets up and goes to a shelf.

“Close your eyes.”

“I really don't see where this is going.”

“I think you do. Pick a book with your eyes closed.”

He does. His fingers hover over the shelf. There's no pull, no supernatural force guiding his hand. Finally he chooses a book and opens his eyes. “Oh, I know who wrote this. Well, knew.”

Aziraphale puts down the wine and gets up to stand beside him. “You knew Julian of Norwich?”

“’Course. Who do you think taught her to read and write?”

Aziraphale glows. It’s like staring at the sun, it’s impossible. “You did?”

“Only for the chaos that would spread from an illiterate nun writing a book of divine revelations, that’s all.”

“She wasn’t a nun, technically, and you don’t need a justification. Not anymore.” He puts his hand on the book Crowley’s holding, dangerously close to his own. “Now ask Julian a question.”

“What?”

“Ask a question and open the book. It’s a neat trick the humans invented, along with the concept of _ receiving signs from the universe_, but you’ve got that down already.”

Crowley mumbles something like, _ No need to be sarcastic, angel_, but Aziraphale ignores him. “I’ve used it, sometimes, when there was no other way. Books have all the answers, in more ways than one.”

“You did? And it worked?”

“I expected it to work and it did. Just like you expected the signs to point to me, and they did.” 

The angel’s expression might be smug or affectionate, but Crowley’s not certain, since he can’t look at him. He also suspects he’s blushing furiously and tells his body, in no uncertain terms, to stop this nonsense. “Fine. What question should I ask?”

“It’s up to you to decide.”

“What question would _ you _ ask?”

“Crowley.”

“_ Fine. _” 

“Just… don’t think too much about it.”

He snorts derisively. Like that was easy. “I suppose the smart thing to do would be to ask a question I already know the answer to. Since we’re doing an experiment and all. We could be sure it works.”

“I suppose so, but that’s not really the purpose, is it?”

Crowley starts thinking about a clever question, something that would prove to Aziraphale that there’s really nothing to his silly theory, but. But. Questions are his thing. He has a lot of them, always had. And there’s one that’s been nagging at him for a very long time. There are solar systems younger that this question.

He opens the book and they read together.

_It behoved that there should be sin; but all shall be well, and all shall be well, and all manner of thing shall be well._

“Oh”, says Crowley. After that he’s quite speechless, and it gets worse when Aziraphale closes the book, puts it on the shelf and takes his hands.

“What question did you ask? If you want to tell me, that is.”

Somehow he forms the words. “I asked if it was the wrong thing, what I did in the Garden.”

The angel smiles. “I used to ask myself that, too. I reached an answer on my own, though, and apparently I was right.”

“How did you know?”  
“Because I got to know you. To meet you time and time again. Maybe the… universe was doing a favour to us both.”

In a place which is not a place and where time is not measurable, She rubs her metaphorical hands with the equivalent of a sigh. All the loose ends are tied up and everything has fallen into place in the most satisfactory of ways.

**Author's Note:**

> The title comes from T.S. Eliot’s _The Dry Salvages_, the third of the Four Quartets.  
The sighting of white animals was considered a supernatural occurrence in the Middle Ages. I took the concept and gave it a twist.  
The evil damsel in the woods in the Arthurian bit is a reference to _La Belle Dame sans Merci_ by Keats.  
There are also references to the Nelson/Hamilton affair (if you don't know Emma Hamilton, look her up and join the fan club) and the graveyard poets; also all the Eliot I could manage. He also paraphrased my favourite passage of Julian of Norwich in _Little Gidding_: “Sin is Behovely, but / All shall be well, and / All manner of thing shall be well”.
> 
> I originally wrote this more than a month ago and, if it seems a bit unripe, it’s because a month is like seven years in fic-writing time.  
Thank you to the friends who read this first and told me what they liked (and didn’t like). I owe you one.
> 
> Come tell me things on [Tumblr](https://mllekurtz.tumblr.com).


End file.
